Track Marks and Battle Wounds
by Sukila
Summary: Blackwatch is different, a place to thrive and finally step off the path once thrust upon her and become more. But nothing can last forever... In the end, morals may need to be discarded for the sake of sanity so long as it gives her a purpose. Because scars are a symbol of pride, what you've lived through, and she intended to keep living even if it meant becoming the villain.


Track Marks and Battle Wounds

Warning: Canon Divergence

She knew, always had, years of practice having easily made for memorised side-effects and prevention warnings she couldn't recall the timing of. They'd ruin her life, hours wasted away in a pity party of her own creation, arms littered with track marks and a wetness from the tears she'd tried to make vanish. The memories would, if only for a few hours, split-second decisions having prompted hours of guilty contemplation over what had gone wrong accompanying all the harsh words they never said but she saw beneath gentle gazes. Because sometimes they were careful, carrying the hint of betrayal just out of sight, and other times they were blunt, open glares and meaningful stares of nothing more than anger and hurt; she had caused that hurt… Playing god had gotten her nothing more than a life of solitude in her youth, pushed towards achievement and even in holding it feeling no pride despite herself. Girls her age were so different from her it was hard to distinguish them as the same species, much less similar. Yet maybe they would both be doing this now, raising a needle to scarred flesh in the darkness of their own misery in hopes for just a little release from anguish.

She knew, eventually, it would be less and less, each figure running through her brain about dosage and effects, a countdown until lucidity became diluted with desensitisation. Knew that she should seek out help, talk to someone, ask for a steady hand to calm her shaking and pry the bottle from her hand, needles sucking in and spitting fire out and into her veins, or occasionally, ice. But she was a doctor and no longer a child, it was easy enough to get her hands on anything and explain it away with numerous falsehoods sounding too complex with her expanse of knowledge; it was never even questioned by her elders, never bothering to ask if it was her doing. It almost made it funny, their considering her just a kid, a sentiment no one seemed to share as they found her arms deep in someone else's guts or covered in blood from the waist down. Home would not solve such a problem either, her house almost exclusively empty besides her own regrets, the scent of her mother barely lingering and hardly a comfort to a neglected child.

She knew what the disappointment would feel like, that being found out was as inevitable as the accidental raising of her arm too high or the simple questioning if she was constantly frigid or hiding something. What was she doing all those hours in her room? Spent alone and out of sight while lost within a high on a cocktail of painkillers and sleeping agents, a simple look into dilated pupils an obvious sign outside the rings of dark under blue eyes and slightly rough feeling to blonde hair, as though she had replaced it with old straw or never showered. Like a desperate cry for help she'd taken up smoking as well, the scent of cancerous threats trailing her like a second skin, only adding to an already noticeable stench within the lab from stressful breaks and habits yet to be broken; a few had tried, she'd seen the patches, but never succeeded with the constant outbreak within the workplace; the only consistency. To outsiders it was odd but almost undetectable beneath the thickness of sterilised air, only questioned by those who had picked up the habit themselves and never truly answered outside the easy statement that someone had broken the rules.

She knew also, deep down, that perhaps someone would notice, had noticed, but simply hadn't acted, felt the need to intervene. Perhaps trying to protect her privacy? Or maybe it was just a lack of empathy, a heart with no more room to care nor bleed over a little girl. It didn't matter, she supposed, her life was leading to the battlefield as she grew older and it called her to act, she was going to die young but accomplished, something not many can say, so it didn't matter, it didn't, doesn't, will never. Yet, even deeper, was a pitiful cry, an angel caught by the wing and begging for an escape, feathers torn off one by one along with the flesh from their back, not that she'd accept the analogy herself, pushing it away and reminding herself not to play god. How far they'd come, nearly resurrecting the dead to save the few now dying and in constant pain and already getting closer each week, day, hour, moment. But like a bird trying to unfurl broken wings to fly from the nest it was destined to fall, never meant to do what its kin could, perhaps they'd succeed but she'd undoubtedly fail, die before then; a comforting consistency. The smoke burned once more in her lungs as she took a shakey breath of cold air, hands creasing the transfer notice with their harsh hold, a pin having already fallen to the floor and become coated in frost with a familiar, orange and silver insignia she'd seen often enough on the news.

She knew it was going to be bad, because maybe she'd gained a lack of caring from her coworkers but knew the troubles she'd face with her habit in the eyes of strangers. She may drag them all down but the sweet scent calmed that notion and she dug into the inner pocket of her labcoat, a bottle in her wallet full of opaque, blue liquid, spare needles, loose pills the colour of honey (their bottle labeled _'Antidepressivum'_ sitting at home next to another, _'Schlaftabletten'_ ), jingling coins, paper notes, a pocketbook full of notes with codes of dosage and patient symptoms to cover them, a picture of her parents, a paper badge shaped like a star, a long, white ribbon; the pin slipped in easily, leaving it if only because her shaking hands could hold it no longer and her eyes wanted to forget what it looked like. The bag seemed to grow heavier each day as she hid within it all the things she didn't want to matter but did, she needed it to end if she was to keep up the reputation of the team, cover bad habits in white lies and hold back the hair of the hungover through vomiting and painful sobbing. They did the same for her, lending out cigarettes and treating her like an adult, little socialisation replaced with solidarity; she would drag them down if she kept it up, ruin their reputation by the news that they'd dragged a fifteen year-old into war and addiction. But this was _her_ war after all, her father long since lost to it and her mother dragged into depression and suicide by all those she couldn't save, condemning her daughter to what she'd pushed on her and only strengthening the battlefield's appeal; weakening her pacifistic resolve and drive as a medical practitioner each hour left in doubt.

She knew this, but Angela wasn't a child anymore, not by anyone's standards, and maybe it was knowing all the harmfulness of it that made it impossible to quit.

* * *

The first thing she'd done was learn to use a gun. Her new superior had given her an odd look as he sized her up but handed her a handgun regardless, without emotion she'd shot each target with steady hands all too used to keeping still in delicate procedures. Miss. Second circle. Miss. Outer circle. Bullseye. It became a new habit she wasn't sure how to categorise, letting everything go as though the rage was projected into the emptying chamber; her hands soon learned the fidget, fingers automatically reaching for a trigger in too much surprise. In every spare moment she was there, wasting ammunition on one more coping mechanism, spending wages on long trips of practice, recruits occasionally casting glances at the stone-faced medic and flinching when they met her gaze.

Sometimes she'd be pulled aside, time set to test a gun since it was already a hobby, the easy practice of studying to calm had helped, terminology coming easily as she explained recoil and reloading issues. Her own research already being added to the mix with the promise it would be strictly for healing, she had warned them her coworkers may care but she did not in the slightest; even helping the process along and finding the lie so obvious it hurt.

On other occasions she'd give pointers, already showing prodigious signs that made her want to curl up crying and hiding as much as keeping it up, thankfully more out of enjoyment than habit she continued. Precious hours once spent in a haze became long runs, stamina increased to absurd points in her eyes, simulations running to downed soldiers, opening courses spent easily outdoing the other medics around her. She was only seventeen when they'd offered a job, to leave behind her old life in Switzerland and forge a new one, the poison in her mind and lungs had protested yet she found herself regifting her badge, discarding a labcoat and donning black, research turned to gunfire, surgeries into medical kits hastily carried on missions rather than call. She can recall the day she threw the bottle of blue over the fence and watched the glass shatter, inwardly screaming but as proud as the look Reyes sent her later after she uncovered the scars on her forearms and dumped the contents of her wallet onto her room's dresser and simply let it all sit out; no more secrets.

It was almost funny, combat having saved her from the misery of whatever path of righteousness she'd once been guided to, adrenaline replacing drugs and her easy willingness to cut herself off at the source, remembering the training she'd forced herself through as if hoping for such a day. For she was still young and moldable, unlike her former coworkers, some of whom had already fallen apart, and away from the glory was where she seemed to thrive, Blackwatch giving her a freedom she'd never felt before in all her desperation; because despite all her misgivings, taking orders was a thousand times easier than choosing for herself; she just wanted to like those orders, for once. Because looking past the blood was easier than blaming herself for every loss and seeing those left to die in her mind in each session of self medication, feeling alone and lost without anyone to know what she did; the burn in her lungs was still a comfort sought but it was easier to quit without the thick smell of decay. The twitch in her hands to reach for needles still lingered outside the reflexes of battle that was the same as those she fought with, pasts blurring into present days as they were gifted second chances; it was an understanding she was grateful for, different than the previous with the other doctors in the way someone held her still when her breathing became too quick, gripped her wrist tight when she made for what was already gone.

For a while it seemed to be looking up, almost too easy, outside occasional relapse, thanks to her busy schedule's distraction. That is, until _he_ came along.

* * *

The _he_ she was referring to was not Jesse McCree, Deadlock's former Deadeye of seventeen, only a small difference of months between them and their time in Blackwatch. He sought her out on occasion, taking comfort in their similar roles as younger members and pasts full of grief, futures full of death, relaxation coming only in firearms and burning cigs, the difference being he started with it while it had been her change, needle to bullet, shooting up to gunfire. She helped him quit a better way than cut-offs like she'd seen before, patches and slow intake bleeding into sober days much like she'd trained herself in letting go of liquid only to cling to the smell of smoke. He'd observed the marks with casual indifference like the rest, she made no effort to cover them like he didn't with his tattoo, not quite a sign of pride but rather of their pasts. Truly, he was probably her first friend outside of the calming presence of her calm-headed but aggressively protective commander. The connection ran deep so quickly it scared them both, shaking as pasts were told and weights lifted as each retold a story of forceful compliance, one killing innocents and the other killing themself as each experienced despair and considered the other's situation worse than their own in an obvious way that made them laugh.

Jesse was her friend.

Genji was not.

The man found that night, wounded and half dead, coated in enough scar tissue to silence nerves, the one who'd sworn an oath of revenge and given a promise to work in exchange for the tech required to keep fighting. The man who stared outwards with red eyes, black hair carrying no trace of the previous green and empty of compassion, mask and metal, and, seemingly, willing to die. It was obvious in the way he acted, reckless and insistent, unwavering and uncaring, he reminded her of herself and Jesse; someone who never knew when to quit fighting. Whether it be by relentless escape attempts despite low odds, biting the hands of captors and booking it down the hall or out the second story of a crumbling building, or by hoping to forget, thrusting medkits into alternate hands and clicking off the safety despite having better training on the other front, preferring to see enemy blood and protect rather than watch a comrade be drained of life. A not quite special case made of present torment and a pained body and mind refusing to waver, youthful like his peers with only a two year difference under their shared twenty-eight by that time.

He looks at her like she's a demon and tussles with Jesse regularly, the banter cold to start with but growing into something lukewarm, eventually. His stare brings back horrible memories, the hateful glares of red bleeding into brown, green, blue, and hazel, each slanted by anger or sadness over someone lost. She doesn't regret saving him but avoids interactions outside her realm of expertise regardless, taking to drinking like a fish to water, helping along previously unmedicated sleep and clearing away the nightmares; her insides are, no doubt, as black as her tar-filled lungs now, and the next time she coughs up blood she decides something ought to be done.

She can't stop though, she'll do anything to rid herself of that lingering gaze that is Genji Shimada's best death stare and the guilt sticking to her heart like needles despite being firm in her choice being the right one.

* * *

Moira O'Deorain is a name sticking to the height of controversy and soaking in insults like a sponge, Reyes hires her if only for one more way to piss off Strike-Commander Morrison after Overwatch themself condemned her. Angela read her findings that had been named so horrible, related even to the Omnic Crisis' cause and found them...normal, thousands of papers having been popularised by conflict and the only real cause for such panic being how high strung the world was now. Just another grouping concerned enough to ruin the career of a passionate woman who took science over anything; it just made her wonder why it had yet to be remade by others, perhaps an unseen variable? It peaked her interest, almost, despite her barely being involved in such things but if she was already to make a trip for her coughing it wouldn't hurt to see what he'd hired her for…

The woman was pleasant if not a bit blunt, dark and serious with a touch of playfulness so often missing from her profession that made for bearable company, at the very least. Reyes gave a short 'Ziegler' in acknowledgement of her salute, an IV in his arm pumping...something. In answering his inquiry to her problem the redhead's interest seemed to peak, setting her up besides her commander with permission simply given as 'if you think you can help…' Moira gave a little clap and a smile, seemingly thrilled as she copied the insertion of an IV, the familiar colour of honey making Angela jolt a bit in remembrance but not pull away, it contrasted deeply to the red flowing into the man sitting on the bed beside hers. It was warm, leaving a lingering gooeyness to her joints, bones seemingly turning slack, stretching like puddy as she fell to her side with a pleasant sigh at the absence of hoarseness in her throat and pain in her breaths, which became deeper as though she was asleep, eyes fluttering and heavy but mind not reaching towards sleep. A trance familiar but different to what she'd once felt, lacking the neediness to return to it, instead feeding off her own relief to ward off addiction; smart.

Her thanks were slurred in German a few times before she finally managed to get out an English thanks in a heavy accent. Answered by a concerned inquiry and a light chuckle, she answered both with another sigh, long and heavy, full of easy agreement. She decided she didn't mind the geneticist, a sentiment surprisingly shared by Jesse, who had been highly amused whilst helping her sleepy self to bed, but not Genji, she never imagined it was even possible for his gaze to be more heated until McCree told him about the new scientist solving her little problem.

She'd already convinced herself the hint of sympathetic concern in his eyes was just her imagination, though, and took another break to smoke soon after, the repairs only making her feel dirtied and false after seeing that glare once more.

* * *

Lena Oxton was a bright burst of hope and happiness in an uncaring world, whether it be chattering animatedly about a woman called 'Emily' or the practices of one 'Tekhartha Mondatta,' of whom she recalls from televised speeches on omnic-human harmony. Recruited for a special project after only a short time a certified pilot, another prodigy, probably a dream come true; it went wrong. For awhile she was dead, that light snuffed out until the hauntings began, visits to Overwatch and Blackwatch alike being how she first met the young woman. It seemed terrifying, teary-eyed goodbyes happening often as weeks passed without sighting and suddenly there she was. The people upstairs would fix it, at the moment, there was nothing she could do but try and help her find her light again, put a smoldering match that was her own spirit to the near buried wick of a candle and hope it doesn't drown in the waxy pools; the last defense against the darkness. But nothing more could be done, really, she herself having already decided she would've given up long before in Oxton's position considering her own spiral; all she could do was try and prevent the same.

The Chronal Accelerator is the youth's saving grace, hours spent pressed against glass of a special room talking with Angela, when she could, or Winston seemingly coming to a close; she decides Lena won't need her anymore, soon, and decidedly stops her visits after one last goodbye unknown to the girl; she only hopes 'Tracer' will understand, after all, Blackwatch always disappears.

Amélie Lacroix had returned. A kidnapping having happened and, seemingly, leaving her unharmed in a way Angela didn't buy. She was asked to come up for the interview and checkover but held no jurisdiction over what happened, her insistence that the woman be kept for observation left unheard by the heroes and her distraught husband. They didn't see what she saw, the odd look of something lacking in her eyes, a twitch to her fingers, the insistence that nothing had been done to her by the medics rather than her whilst she was quiet as though traumatised but carrying herself with confidence rather than fear, clinging out of something other than need. Despite never knowing her Angela wrapped the tense woman in a hug as though it would be the last for each of them, whispering a promise she'd be made whole again, that whatever may happen in the next few weeks wasn't her doing. Beneath the cold and shaking were tears so genuine it hurt, as though she was trapped in her own body; they were written off as trauma.

Knowing her warnings would fall on deaf ears she did the least she could do for the poor ballerina, who was, no doubt, about to do something she'd regret however long she could.

* * *

Things have gone off the rails. Her organisation having been dragged forcefully from the shadows and unprepared for the spotlight's shine as it replaces Moira's paper at the height of controversy. Her and Jesse are told to lie if asked when they joined, Gérard Lacroix was dead and it was worse than Angela could have ever imagined; because she knew something was going to happen but not this...never this. Worst of all is Null Sector, Oxton's role model having turned into a figure prominent enough for kidnapping, Overwatch, even in all their heroic glory, being denied the chance to help.

It's as they say, though, if light cannot reach than darkness will, she could see the jealousy and anguish in the cadet's face as her and McCree set off for their 'vacation,' the rebellion against Blackwatch's suspension that was a move so typical of Reyes it's amazing the Strike-Commander hadn't seen it coming as they reported.

"Null Sector is holding Mondatta, Mayor Nandah, and a hundred prisoners in the power plant. It's all walled off. You want in, you're going to need to blow open the doors," He started, keeping on eye on their back as each surveyed the area in part.

"A situation only possible if one can bypass the air defenses," She concurred, taking a quick shot ahead as a few spotted them, quickly turning back at the sound of rapid fire.

Jesse cursed, backup arriving as their cover blew, "I'll call ya back, things are gettin' a little dicey here. McCree out."

"It appears we may escalate things further should we remain…" She started, already noticing the compromised area, "I will check-in regularly as instructed where my partner cannot, Fideline out," She finishes, picking up a black stetson and passing it off to the cowboy who grins, letting out a chuckle as they take off running.

"Did you really choose a codename, Angie?"

She absolutely does not blush, "It's symbolic...you might want to think about it too, your name is still on a number of posters, Jess."

"Says the famous prodigy doctor," He jokes.

She shoots him a glare, pouting and fidgeting a bit as they take cover, pulling the short sleeve of her black suit a bit lower in discomfort, "I do not like working so openly…" She explains upon meeting his gaze, he sighs, making a noise of agreement and pushing up the brim of his hat up. If she recalled correctly, Genji would be training with Oxton now, wouldn't he? Something about making final checks on the device, not that it mattered now, Overwatch wouldn't be coming...they couldn't do this on their own though...it was already risky enough sending in two agents.

It was quiet as they walked, only the sound of echoing footsteps to guide them, "Jesse…" He turned to her and spotted to odd look, eyes staring straight ahead with an odd sort of darkness lingering within, "Do you think this is the end of Overwatch?" It was then he recognised it; fear.

"'fraid it could be soon…"

"Do you know what you'd do, if it did, that is?"

The question and her seriousness seem to catch him off guard, "Never really thought about it...I mean, I _am_ a criminal."

She chuckled, "You know as well as I how Gabe is, he would've let you go a _long_ time ago if you'd asked, all I'm trying to say is...I can't go back to Switzerland. I just...can't" The tone seems too serious, even for her, but it needs to be said, she knows that, "You're my only friend and...I don't want to be alone again, I want to follow your lead when the time comes so I guess what I'm really asking is… We can wait for Gabe's plan- because I'm sure he has one -or play our own hand; should we wait this out and see what happens, Jess?"

He seems at a loss for words, brown meeting blue in a deep stare as each seems to take in all the differences from all those years ago, passing in a blur but buried deep in memories of a scruffy-haired brat with barely a stubble, a cocky little kid that claimed he was 23 when he got caught, adamantly refusing to be patronised and a tired girl with dead eyes and too many shirts on over her uniform, claiming to have been an adult since 15. Then there was Gabe, the high and mighty Commander Reyes who inspired loyalty in the worst of criminals and hope in the deadest of eyes; Jesse knew the answer.

He grinned, "Well, I ain't one to tear a family apart."

They shared a hug, caught in the moment for just the briefest second as Angela wiped away a tear, unable to stop smiling, because Overwatch and Blackwatch may be over for all they know...but she isn't going to lose everything; everyone.

"...promise you won't run off without me, though, okay, cowboy?"

"Promise, Angie."

* * *

Her whole world collapsed. It had only been a year. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong! _Wrong!_ She spewed out German in fast-paced nonsense, collapsing under the weight of loss just like the crush of rubble that had no doubt finished the last of the survivors. Gabe. How long had it been since that ceremony? The first time they'd gotten the spotlight, received a medal held up with pride and clinked as though in a toast between the covert ops members. Then Ana died. Then Genji left. Tracer disappeared again. Moira ran. Now? Switzerland. Always Switzerland, full circle, taking everything she ever had and held dear outside her trusted friend because the explosion there had taken not only the Strike-Commander Morrison but it had taken Gabriel Reyes; the commander, their father-figure, their family! An accident...

They were going to go as long as they could, they stayed for him despite the conflict, despite the spotlight, everything! They left before the Petras Act was even ratified, teary-eyed and mourning the only person back then they knew hadn't been rotten to the core. She screams, he screams, they cry and break and run and hide. She dyes her hair black, chopping the usual length to a ponytail and hiding in plain sight, adopting 'Fideline' with a more permanent approach; her brief memory of poor Amélie never fading. He keeps the black but grows his hair longer, adding metal decals once deemed too showy for Blackwatch and a cheesy one-liner to go with his 'Deadeye' as he calls it now, the memory of Gabe's teasing shown in spirit through all his mannerisms. They'd planned on Santa Fe since he knew it well but somehow kept to the UK, memories of the year prior an oddly calming thought, the sight of a promise rather than what was lost; not to mention, in a way, his Santa Fe was her Switzerland, a land of broken promises; she's happy they didn't go.

Still, she'd never known Captain Amari well, always keeping to herself as best she could back then, but Jesse knew her well, and to lose both her and Gabe? That was heartbreak that would follow anywhere, stacking extra weight to an already heavy burden that only increased further in thinking of Fareeha. The strong little girl that the soldiers saluted to, dreamed of fighting, and once asked Angela if she could be her girlfriend when she got stronger (though that's a story for another time; along with the aftermath of a very angry Captain), and of joining Overwatch and fighting with all of them.

She was alone now, just like all of them, dream in shards, the only silver lining being it wasn't when she wasn't that tiny twelve year-old with beaded hair; she'd be 32 now...already a woman, where had the time gone?

* * *

They hadn't expected The Reaper. He approached them late one night on a contract, vigilantism no source of income and neither having been willing to return to Gibraltar, their original reason for sticking around, at first. They wouldn't get the chance now, it seemed, each deciding with a simple glance that they'd rather fight in a pair than on a team full of strangers, empty of the friends they'd once known; it was illegal either way so why bother with trusting and losing any more friends, one was _already_ pushing it. There had been a warning about this in the recall, something about a break-in, why had he come their way though? She could smell the sweetness of smoke so unlike the usual fix, inky blackness bleeding into a figure as each readied their weapons, a revolver and two handguns at the ready despite it being unlike previous encounters where members were blinded, choking on the same haze.

"Hey, kiddo." He drawls in gravelly tone, shotguns at his hip left as they are, relaxed despite the weapons pointed at him, "Funny meeting you here."

"Really? And here I reckoned you came here lookin' for me." Her partner replied, laying on the accent a bit heavier which she read as confident rather than fearful, shifting slightly in her hiding place until she had a clear shot at the masked man's head.

"Well, you're half-right." He chuckles darkly, a creepy aura about him as he tilts his head in Angela's direction, who does her best not to jolt as her heartbeat comes in short bursts, breaths barely controlled, suddenly noticing Jesse's similar state. Fight or flight. Right. She takes off sprinting, using the shadows just as she'd been trained, black suit never abandoned from Blackwatch days assisting her effort to blend-in, round unloading in quick succession as Jesse threw a flashbang, shielding his eyes with his hat and never quite forgetting nearly blinding himself during that final escape attempt all those years ago. She looked back for just a split second before being shoved to the ground, one gun sliding from reach as he loomed over her, the click of an empty chamber greeting her pulling of the trigger. She doesn't give up, scrambling for the other before it's kicked out of the way, eyes wide and ready to scream for Jesse but oddly transfixed with the moment given, and it's there she _sees._

"Those guns…" It dawns on her like the calling card of a storm, a morning bleeding through, "Those are Gabriel's guns!" She screeches.

"Hmm...I suppose they are…" He taunts, examining the weapons in hand with a quick, dismissive glance.

She sees red.

Her leg kicks outwards and he turns intangible out of reflex as she scrambles upwards, scooping up the loaded weapon, "Why do you have those?!" She demands, hands shaking erratically, when he doesn't answer she shoots the ground into front of him, repeating the inquiry with an even greater sharpness, "Why?!"

Her eyes blur with tears and emotion bleeding into her stance, throat feeling drier by the moment as they stood in silence, nothing but the frantic footsteps to break it before they stand together; The Reaper still having not even pointed the weapons at her that Jesse notices immediately, breath hitching as he catches it and taking in the situation with caution.

When he reaches a hand up she jolts but manages to keep herself from firing, a mask falls to the floor and where the face of a stranger was expected is...a...ghost… Her knees hit the floor, fingers barely remembering to click on the safety through their harsh trembles, the clattering of a familiar weapon to the floor.

"Rey...yes…?" Her ears were ringing endlessly, words that may have been said drowned in the blood rush blocking her ears; she couldn't stop herself, she screamed.

* * *

She knew only a few things. She had cried in her sleep. This place was not familiar. She was even more exhausted than before. There was a needle in her arm promptly ripped out of her vein in the panic telling her it was poison. Then she started wailing, repeating that it wasn't real, German slurring into English with a familiar warmth that couldn't be real because he's dead! _Gabriel Reyes is dead!_ Yet he held her now as he had in dreams before, gentle brushes through dyed hair and crooning in Spanish from all those panic attacks and withdrawals. Her hand gripped his wrist to stop him and fit their fingers together with water prickling in each eye because she didn't know if it was real!

"I'm sorry, mija."

"Gabe…vati!" And she broke, "I- please don't be a dream...I mourned you…!"

"I know, mija, I know."

And suddenly she was so angry, happy, sad, combining into a mixture she didn't dare hope to separate as it all suddenly came back to before, scarred face, Gabriel's guns, mask, run, fight, die, die, die!

"Why…?"

He hesitated, trying to be careful, "It got bad, Jack and I didn't bury the hatchet so well and it turned into a war… I'm only glad you both weren't there- then a bomb went off and...we were dead; or...I thought so. Moira helped me out but had to go to Talon for funding…" She nodded, getting the rest, "Wrestled the locations out of Gibraltar just a few days ago, I needed to find you."

She smacked him on the chest, knowing he wouldn't feel it but angry regardless, "We...thought...you..were...trying...to...kill us! Dummkopf!" Then took a longer breather, "I assume Jesse is already filled in then… So where are we now?"

"Nearest Talon outpost, but only for a day!" He hastily added at her fearful glance.

It was then that she became curious, "Why...did you never leave Talon, anyway?"

"Our goals don't align but there's someone here I want to be around for, not to mention I was most likely labeled the instigator of our little feud."

"Someone…?"

"I'll have to fill you in some other time, I should get going."

No. No, not again! "But I- No! No, damn it! I'm not letting you do this again!"

"Angela-"

"Jess and I stuck around for you! We would've left but we wanted in on whatever plan you never told us about that would at least let us stick together! We're only here because there's nowhere else we know without memories of what we lost! Of who betrayed us! You joined a terrorist organisation but expect us to keep wandering around aimlessly, just waiting for an answer that would never show up, just like before?!"

" _Angela-"_

" _Listen!_ I want to help you, whoever you mean, please!"

" _Angela, you can't-!"_

" _ **Reyes, I'm fucking lost!"**_ She screams, fist slamming onto the bedside table to punctuate her point, "...Blackwatch was a reason to move forward, something that kept me from becoming whatever I was before, again. Now it's gone, and you were too, and all I ever did was remind Jesse of the past!" Her breath hitches into another sob, "Don't you see? I've fucked up everything around me that was ever good! I did it with you, and Jesse, and _Amélie-_ _and Genji-_ and- and...!"

He holds her tightly, trying to help quell the shaking, "I could have saved her, but I didn't, so maybe I should've saved everyone a little grief and just _disappeared!"_ She holds herself a little tighter, turning away, "What else am I good for…?"

"Angie…come one, I just had the self-pity breakdown a few hours ago, you're late." She chuckles despite herself, turning the sound darker towards the end as Jesse sits beside her, "C'mon, you're not a reminder Angela...you're hope, 'Fideline,' ya know, that name you _chose_ for _her."_

"...I'm so sorry."

"Shh...ya don' have to be anymore, none of this is your fault." They're all there. It's alright, right? Right. Alright. Alright. Alright. Then an arm unwinds from around her and claps Gabe on the shoulder, "But we're not leaving you; that ain't an option anymore."

And Reyes sighs but can't stop the smile from creeping up, his own tears spilling like the rest, "Alright, kid."

And there was an echo of before, the little voice of two seventeen year-olds both shouting, "I ain't a kid!" and, "I'm no child!"

But now there was only pleasant silence, the subtle hint of what was to come not nearly as scary despite their circumstance.

* * *

The Overwatch recall brought back many old contenders and a few new but new Talon agents, in a sort of parallel, had also joined the rise of the organisation.

Widowmaker, keen eyed sniper with a skin tone matching the ice of her heart.

The Reaper, wielding familiar weaponry and never without his underlings.

Deadeye, a viciously gifted sharpshooter with an equally sharp wit and tongue; Reaper's hunter.

Fideline, the more serious player with a gifted mind and aim; Reaper's huntress.

Later bringing on Sombra who played more to their side than before.

Doomfist, a leader, sprung from a cell by his own power.

And Moira's involvement finally becoming known being the most current nail in the coffin.

It was obvious who the newer where...but why?

* * *

Genji was so different she barely recognised him, it was almost as though he was at peace, something she'd heard him claim; a likely story. The man she'd known was a vengeance-seeking bastard willing to push everyone down around him despite already craving a simple death. The letter though...something different entirely. A paper record, physical, full of looped handwriting and feelings as he wrote of his time spent with an Omnic called 'Zenyatta;' he seemed happy but why write her?

He'd recognised her despite the changes, ponytail in all its purple glory and whiter and black body suit so unlike her Blackwatch garb, the tech strapped to the back she'd made herself, crafted like wings of light, he called her name even…

"Fideline!" The sharp call had come from their leader, she'd been quick to follow, falling in line easily, used to following orders from her time before. Widow was already looking better, less...purple, a thankful change she'd been able to convince into fruition with so much knowledge of the battle field and medical expertise.

"That your boyfriend…?" Sombra teased.

"No." She said without much care, finally having grown a backbone in recent times, enough to resent him for pushing her so far down when what had happened wasn't her fault; for his blame always falling on _her_ specifically, "He hates me, has for years."

"What'd you do to piss him off, amiga?"

She thought for barely a moment about her response, "I existed."

"Damn, that's some bad blood right there."

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

The next letter was an apology and an inquiry, Gabe read over her shoulder and gave her a pat on the shoulder, knowing it was still an open wound for her. She'd become less of the Reaper's huntress and more of Doomfist's, accompanying Akande on many missions as the heavier artillery kept with Widow (she was so different from her former self...she just couldn't call her by that name). They ran into Overwatch often, quite the number seemingly recognising her or writing her off as just a stranger from the lack of response; she was a stranger either way though, wasn't she?

The means to the end was more important anyway, their lack of loyalty would be left unnoticed so long as they complied and if a problem came it would be simple enough to break it all down, stealing away with whomever is willing outside themselves (including Amélie, who was going no matter what). Until then she had a purpose, they all did, and even Akande agreed that Talon was not meant to rule, leaving them unlikely to internally feud (since they didn't need another damn Reyes v Morrison bombing for fucks sake).

It wasn't a perfect world, after all but, for now, this seemed to be the best they had. And outside letters, confusion, old comrades in pain, and occasional bouts of guilt or the growing need for something to take the edge off (literally at times, why does everything in Talon have to be black?); they had family, friends, hope, and solidarity.

Because scars are a symbol of pride, what you've lived through, it was why they each had one, so even if everything was confusing and the world was going mad, the lines between good and evil blurred to the point where they can't even see them... _she knew_ for sure it was with these people that she belonged; unwavering in the loyalty of her namesake.


End file.
